


what kind of man

by perennial



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Co-workers, F/M, Kissing Lessons, Modern AU, Utter Nonsense, embracing this trope with both hands, real world AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 17:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial/pseuds/perennial
Summary: Hermione’s longtime crush has finally asked her out. Convinced the future of their relationship hinges on having an unforgettable first kiss, and worried she won’t be able to deliver on that point, she goes to the office playboy for help.





	what kind of man

**Author's Note:**

> The movie quoted near the end is The Trip (2010).

Hermione has had a crush on Ron Weasley since her first day at Hogwarts Industries two years ago, so the fact that he’s finally asked her to dinner should have her floating on cloud nine.

Instead, anxiety knots her stomach. She wastes hours staring blindly at her computer screen, fretting, until finally giving up and going to the office breakroom to fret over lunch. She doesn’t have an appetite but at least she won’t feel guilty over misusing work time.

It was supposed to be a productive day. It needs to be a productive day – she has deadlines fast approaching. So of course this happened. She’s happy about it, definitely! – she’d almost given up all hope. But on the other hand, it’s going to be a disaster. She knows it in her bones. They haven’t even begun the first date and she knows she’s going to screw it up.

She’s poking a pattern in her spinach leaves with a fork when Sirius Black saunters into the kitchen. He’s carrying a takeout carton from the café downstairs and he says: “Congratulations. You finally got that boy to notice your existence.”

So it’s all over the floor. Of course it is. Ron hadn’t exactly asked her out in an out-of-the-way spot; he’d picked an elevator packed with their yawning coworkers. She’d flushed red and hoped all of them were too groggy to register what was happening. Evidently not.

“Thanks.”

He pulls the soy sauce out of the fridge. “Why do you look miserable?”

“I’m not miserable.”

“You look miserable. Are you sick?”

“I’m fine. I’m great!”

He looks skeptical but blessedly turns his attention to dousing his spring rolls with soy sauce. Hermione returns to the destruction of her salad.

She can hear Sirius digging through the first aid drawer. A moment later a packet of Dayquil gel-caps appears on the table by her wrist. “Take these,” he says.

He’s holding a tube of Airborne. She nods to it. “What’s that for?”

“That’s for me.”

“I’m not sick! And I don’t need these.”

“Take them anyway. It’d be tragic if you had to cancel your date just because your immune system didn’t show up for work.”

She crosses her arms. “Speaking of. Where were you yesterday?”

He flashes her a smile. “Miss me?”

“It took me an hour to find someone who could run the demographics reports for the meeting with Minerva.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.” He bites off half a spring roll.

She studies him. He might mean it. He’s always struck her as one of those people who sincerely mean what they say but whose flippancy offsets the effect.

Then again, maybe not. She’s always had a hard time reading Sirius. Lack of frequent proximity, lack of common values and interests, that sort of thing.

“Could you at least give me a heads up next time? Forewarned is forearmed.”

“How about you tell my immune system to give me a heads up and then I’ll be able to give you a heads up.” He nods to the gel-caps. “Take those.”

“You weren’t sick. Minerva told us you were out of town.”

“I _was_ sick. Of London. Went skiing in Aviemore.”

“Go alone, did you?”

He only winks and salutes her with the Airborne tube and walks out of the breakroom with his food.

Hermione tries to imagine abandoning work for play, just because she felt like it. She fails. This is one of the reasons she and Sirius have never become friendlier than work acquaintances. She likes him well enough, but they don’t run in the same circles, in life or in mind.

She’s pleased to discover that the conversation has been an effective distraction to calm her date-related nausea – which immediately springs back into place the moment she remembers it. She dumps her mess of a salad in the trash and goes back to her desk.

-

She has a horrible idea. A terrible idea. An admittedly inspired idea, but also one that is horrible and terrible and _should not be acted upon_.

She goes to Sirius’ office and slides into one of the chairs facing his desk.

“I’m not good at kissing.”

He glances at her, keeps typing.

“I don’t want to screw this up. My chance with Ron, I mean. The first kiss is kind of a big deal. A lot of people use it to judge whether or not a relationship is viable.”

He gives her a bored look.

“I want you to teach me how.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“Not—not—I’ll pay you. For, I don’t know, an hour’s session or something. Or however long it will take to get me from amateur to intermediate.”

He swivels in his chair so that he’s facing her. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and considers her for an uncomfortably silent length of time. He says, “Why on earth did you pick me for this?”

The knot in her stomach tightens. So this is going to be mortifying after all. She appeals to his vanity.

“You have _game_ , Sirius. You’re always dating some model or another. You brought different dates to the Christmas party _and_ the New Year’s party _and_ the New Year’s afterparty. You must be doing something right—”

He interrupts. “Who told you that you’re a bad kisser?”

“No one said it outright. But there’s a certain… lack of enthusiasm. I kind of figured it out.”

“What jackasses have you been kissing?”

She gives him a pained look. “Do we have to dissect my romantic history? I’m trying to lay the groundwork for a better future, here.” She tries not to look desperate. She very much wishes she hadn't walked into his office, almost as much as she wants his help.

He leans back in his chair, chin propped in his palm, two of his fingers crooked over his mouth, and considers her again.

“This is weird,” he says. “Deal.”

-

There is a knock on her front door a few minutes before eight.

(He had said: “Your place or mine?”

And she had said: “Um, I was thinking just one of the supply closets here.”

He’d given her an appalled look. “You want to do this at work? That’s how you start twenty rumors. I should know. Your place; it’s a comfortable environment for you. Tonight?”)

She has spent a ridiculous amount of time choosing what to wear. She obviously couldn’t stay in her work clothes, which are standard officewear pencil-skirt-and-blouse, but at least those he’s already seen her in and won’t have reason to think she chose them with him in mind.

Nothing too cute or fitted, or he’d think their arrangement was just a ploy to get him to her flat. She needs to look like she’s wearing something she would typically wear during an evening at home, which in her case is usually yoga pants, but a rogue voice in her head wants him to find her attractive, attractive enough to want to kiss her for an hour. She went in circles until she was so annoyed at herself for how much thought she was putting into it that she almost opted to put her work clothes back on and pretend she had just gotten home from running errands.

Now she answers the door in jeans and a soft cotton tank under a softer sheer sweater. Hair in a ponytail. No jewelry. _NO_ lip product. She brushed her teeth and then drank tea to cover up the mint flavor. He’ll probably know anyway. He can probably tell just from looking at her.

(He’s in the most basic black crewneck and jeans she has ever seen and he still looks like he stepped out of a J.Crew photoshoot. She knows for a fact that he buys their suits; they make him so attractive she wants to spit nails.)

She’s irritated to notice her pulse has sped up. This isn’t even the real thing. She tries to pretend he’s Ron. Her pulse slows slightly, then jumps again when he finishes hanging his coat and turns to look at her. _Calm **down**._

He says, “Did you make a syllabus or are you good with just doing what I tell you to do?”

“Um, whatever you have in mind is fine.”

“Great. Then come over here and let’s get started.”

“What about the couch?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. We’re going to start with the basics.”

“But won’t we be sitting, to start? Him and me.”

“Why would you be sitting? You’ll start standing, right here at your door.”

“I was thinking about the car.”

“Don’t let him kiss you in his car or you won’t have a chance to bring it inside. Make sure he walks you to your door. Now, for the sort of thing I’m guessing you want, seeing as I’m not here to teach you a short sweet chase front-porch kiss, make sure you’ve got the door unlocked before you start.”

“This is a _first date_ , Sirius—”

“I know. You’re not diving for the sheets.” He grins. “That’ll be the next tutorial.”

“Will you please act like a decent person. I don’t care if it’s short and sweet, I’m great with short and sweet, I just want it to be _good!_ ”

“Then follow my lead. I know what I’m doing. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Fine. Just let me get you a stepstool.”

He looks baffled. “A stepstool?”

“Yeah. Ron’s… let’s just say he’s going to be more difficult to reach.”

He laughs. “Alright. Alright, you win. We’ll start on the couch.”

She congratulates herself on having (unwittingly) established that Ron is forefront in her mind and that she’s comparing them, even if it’s only a matter of three inches. Just in case lack of lip product isn’t doing the trick.

She sits primly, knees together, back straight.

“ _Relax_ , Hermione. You’re about as accessible as a sealed bottle. Future You wants to be here, remember? Pretend to be Future You.” He sits down so close their knees touch. She wonders if Ron is bold enough to make a move like that. She wonders if Sirius can tell how far out of her comfort zone she is. She pretends to relax.

“I’m going to kiss you, and then you’re going to do exactly what I do back to me, so pay attention.”

She isn’t expecting him to put his hand on her waist; she was prepared for his invasion of personal space in the general area of her face-head-neck but not the rest of her body. But he acts as though this is all perfectly normal and natural, and his hand is warm and he holds her like he isn’t even thinking about the fact that they are coworkers and they check more boxes in the strangers column than the friends one and that she’s _paying him_ to teach her how to kiss another man—and her awkwardness is dispersed by the absence of his. His other arm slides around her. He’s holding her like it’s on purpose, like he wants to. Her heart speeds up. He has a knack for this, she’ll give him that. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn he moonlights as a gigolo.

He tilts his head and leans forward. All she can hear is his breathing and the thud of her heartbeat. Just when he is close enough for her to feel his faint, warm exhalation on her skin and she is thinking _SIRIUS BLACK is going to KISS ME_ , he says:

“What do you know about sensory neurons?”

He doesn’t move his head even fractionally, so neither does she.

She pulls herself together enough to say, “You know perfectly well I studied engineering.”

He chuckles and sits back. She feels a disconcerting spasm of disappointment. He takes one of her hands and slowly runs his thumb over the back of it.

“Sensory nerve receptors tell you about your environment—what something feels like, for example. The more there are, the more sensitive that area of your body is. For example, there are dense groups of receptors in the hands, fewer in your back.”

He’s speaking quietly, not making any effort to sound seductive that she can tell. She can’t believe she’s actually interested in what he’s saying. His voice shouldn’t be as hypnotizing as it is.

She also is very aware of the fact that while he talks he is slowly running his hand up her arm and leaning forward, so that by the time he says these last words, his nose is almost brushing her cheek and her skin is alight with nerves and anticipation.

“The highest density of receptors in the body,” he says softly, “are in the lips.”

He touches his mouth to hers, presses gently. Her eyes drop closed.

His lips are warm. Firm. Not even slightly chapped, which she appreciates.

She brings her hand up to rest her fingers on his cheek. He breaks the kiss and looks at her.

“Don’t kiss me back. Just pay attention.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Draw your head up,” he says, guiding her chin. “Right there. See how that fits better?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He tastes like cinnamon gum. His neck is bent to keep his face level with hers, almost a little lower. There is a slow pulse to his kisses, slight movements backward and then forward and slightly upward, as though he is drinking her in, as though he can’t pull away from her.

(Definitely a gigolo.)

(Or just a run-of-the-mill playboy with more notches on his bedpost than she can fathom.)

She’s wondering about his tongue when—

He releases her and sits back. “Your turn.”

Oh.

“Do what I just did back to me, remember.”

She smiles weakly. “I’m not, I’m not good at the seductive part.”

“What seductive part?”

“The talking part. The lead up.”

He smiles. “That was just information. In your case, the lead up will develop naturally. Or should. Just don’t say something like ‘I’d really like to kiss you right now’. That part of the conversation is _silent_.”

“Silent I _can_ do,” she says, relieved.

He sounds a little surprised when he says “Alright,” and she worries that she isn’t actually supposed to do the silent part, maybe he just wants her to jump right to the liplock.

“Relax, Hermione,” he says, “this is practice, not the final;” and with that he’s just Sirius Black again, sitting on her couch, dispassionately preparing to do something he’s done a thousand times before. The tension leaves her shoulders.

“I don’t have to impress you,” she says.

He gives her a grin with one just corner of his mouth. “That’s right.”

“I’m paying you.”

“Let’s make sure you get your money’s worth.”

She takes her time.

She looks at him, into his eyes. Blue, she knew his eyes were blue, but she’s never really _looked_ at them. Dark blue with none of the extra streaks of color most people have in their irises; his are a uniform shade from outer ring to pupil. He looks back, waiting.

_This is practice._

She moves closer, slowly, supporting the weight of her body with her hands. She doesn’t touch him.

She can hear his quiet breathing through his nose. His eyes drop to her mouth.

Good Lord, his face is the stuff of dreams. She’s never really looked at his mouth before either.

 _Ron_ , she thinks. Ron Ron Ron. This is for Ron. She tries to imagine Sirius with red hair.

She brushes her mouth across his. Her nose bumps against his awkwardly.

She sits back. “I want to start over.” He nods.

This time she rests her hand on his ribcage. She touches her lips lightly to his and slides her other hand around to the back of his head where his hairline meets his neck. She presses harder against his mouth. His lips are slightly parted; she touches his bottom lip with her tongue, indicating that he open them more, which he does. When their tongues touch she feels a spark in every nerve ending in her body.

He still isn’t touching her with his hands. She holds her head the way he told her to and tries to imitate his tempo: slow, steady. She feels his hands slide around her waist.

They spend a while adjusting to the shape of each other’s mouths. It isn’t difficult to fall into a rhythm. She’s been the recipient of some wet, over-eager kisses, but Sirius has earned his reputation. He’s considerate and sensual and, strangely enough, sweet. Like his first priority is to make sure she’s happy. Her thoughts fog up; she is only aware of what his mouth is doing and the way he’s holding her. All of it feels so much better than she expected. She understands now why people can get addicted to this sort of thing.

She remembers something she’s always wanted to try. It takes a moment for her to get her mouth lined up correctly – then she tugs _very gently_ at his bottom lip with her teeth. It feels possessive. It feels daring… for her, at least. And it causes him to make a noise in the back of his throat.

She breaks the kiss to look at him.

“That’s a good thing. You’re, ah—you’re getting a reaction.”

Her heart beats faster.

She tries it again. She can feel his mouth curve in a smile, and he doesn’t make the sound again but he does bring his hand up to cradle the back of her head.

That, she likes.

They break apart briefly to catch their breath.

“What next?” she whispers.

“Let’s just do this for a little while,” he says distantly. He clears his throat. “Unless you have questions.”

“My tongue,” she says. “I don’t…”

He leans back and looks at her fully. His eyes are dark and his mouth is a little slack.

He takes her face in both of his hands and bends his head to hers, fitting their mouths together again. His tongue slides against hers, quick and insistent and very, very intentional—and suddenly she’s dizzy and hot and clutching at his shirt, and all she wants is to be as close to him as possible. She twines her arms around his shoulders and pulls her body flush to his.

He kisses her harder, one hand cupping her jaw, the other pressed squarely into the center of her back; they sink back against the couch, trying to bend legs and adjust bodies to fit against each other more comfortably, which only results in them ending up nearly horizontal.

He rolls them over so that he is above her with his arms enclosing her; hers are still around his neck. She can hear him breathing fast, and feels a rush of relief and gladness: that isn’t clinical, educational breathing. She must be doing something right.

It doesn’t fully register how much they’ve sped up until she feels his mouth on her neck and she realizes the length of her body is pressed to his. She kisses his face, any part she can reach. His thumbs press against her hipbones. Her whole body is humming. Then his mouth is back on hers and he’s kissing her like he has no plans to ever stop.

The next thing she knows, his hands are on both her shoulders and he’s sitting back slightly.

He breathes in—shakily, she almost flatters herself, except that a moment later his voice is steady:

“Slow down,” he says. “First date, remember?”

She looks up at him and tries to slow her breathing. How on earth does he do it?

He looks down at her and smiles. “How’s it going?”

She nods.

“Any questions?” He moves a curl out of her eyes.

She can hardly think. She just smiles at him. His smile moves to his eyes; they look almost affectionate.

When they resume, it’s slower, back to the sweetness they started with – only, now they know each other’s mouths. This sort of kissing is lovely, she thinks. No pressure to go further. Just luxuriating in each other.

The alarm on his phone blares without warning and she nearly leaps off the couch.

“That’s an hour,” he says. He turns off the alarm. Stands. Goes to the coatrack and pulls on his coat. He looks totally unaffected, might have just knocked on the door.

“So?” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Did I pass.”

“You'll do just fine.” He pulls on his scarf. “Rather better than you gave yourself credit for. Night, Hermione.” And then, as the door swings closed, like an ax falling: “See you tomorrow.”

She eventually manages to leave the couch to turn the lock behind him. She moves through the living room in a daze, turning off lights. She brushes her teeth and puts on her pajamas. She lays in bed, hugging the blankets to her stomach, and thinks about his lips moving against hers. His arms around her. His eyes dark, his mouth searching for hers.

She replays it in her mind over and over before falling asleep, and she forgets to substitute in Ron.

-

Dangerous, this. She’s an idiot really. What was she thinking? He’s the office Casanova. The _company_ Casanova. And she walked into this with her eyes wide open. Honestly, Hermione!

Preoccupied with her thoughts, she walks into the copy room and almost collides with Sirius Black.

“Morning,” he says casually, while she turns cherry red.

“Mm.” She punches the keypad.

“What’s your deal?”

“I didn’t think about the fact we would have to see each other. Here. After,” she says stiffly.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like it was a one night stand. Or even an impulsive, regrettable makeout session. Anyway, you wouldn’t be the first.”

She stares at the console. “Or the last?” she says, but he’s already collected his copies and is leaving the room.

-

The next time she sees him is at the management meeting. He’s sitting in that way he sits, all sloungy-cool, on the other side of the conference room table. She feels all the blood in her body rush to her face.

He gives her a _get it together_ look. How can he act so normal? Her presence doesn’t ruffle him at all. He’s holding a sheet of paper and it doesn’t shake even slightly.

Fine. If he’s not bothered, she isn’t either.

It’s going to be a long meeting: Minerva is rolling out a new training plan. Hermione half-listens. From under lowered lids she scans the faces around the table, wondering who else has spent an evening making out with Sirius Black.

No! Not _who else_. She has _not_. Their session was planned and platonic. Educational. Training doesn’t count as the real thing. She straightens and gives her full attention to Minerva.

She glances at his arms. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt; the green blazer hangs over the back of his chair. Incredible, that she knows what it feels like to be held in those arms, knows the shape of his mouth, knows the scent of the cologne at his neck. And she has to sit here and act like she doesn’t.

The meeting ends an hour later and none too soon as far Hermione is concerned. Sirius catches her in the exit flood out the door and speaks quietly under the cover of the crowd around them.

“You have _got_ to stop looking at me,” he says.

“I don’t know how you do this all the time,” she tells him. “I’m a total wreck.”

“I noticed,” he says drily. “And other people are going to notice, unless you _stop looking_ at me like that.”

“Whatever! You already have a reputation for this kind of thing.”

“I was thinking of you.”

“Who else have you been with? Who works here, I mean.”

“No one who matters.”

“There are over two hundred women at Hogwarts,” she says, trying to calculate the demographics. “Most of them are middle-aged and married, although I don’t know where you draw the line—”

“I’m drawing the line right here. Stop talking. This was a business transaction, which has been completed, and now we will both move on. Got it?”

He can’t intimidate her anymore. She has three hickeys hiding under the collar of her shirt. She knows what the angle of his top row of teeth feels like against her tongue.

His eyes are blue and impersonal and it was a business transaction.

“Got it,” she says, and walks away.

-

Hermione pauses in the doorway, then squares her shoulders and walks in. Sirius Black doesn’t own the kitchen, there is no awkward history between them, and thus there is no reason she shouldn’t be able to fix her lunch next to him in anything but absolute tranquility.

She drops her Rubbermaid container on the counter beside him with perhaps more force than necessary. He’s already claimed the microwave so she pretends her soup needs to be stirred while she waits.

“You know,” he says, slicing up a cucumber, “there are like sixty books and probably a hundred billion articles on why you shouldn’t gauge the health of a relationship based on its physicality. It’s actually the inverse. Physicality is the most inaccurate assessment point.”

“I know.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to kiss him to know if you’re viable. You could even try not kissing him, see how the evening goes, judge it based on your conversational rapport.”

She drops her spoon in the soup and stares at him, aghast. “Did you lie? Was I actually bad?”

“What?”

“You’re telling me to not kiss him. Was I—”

“ _No_ , Hermione. I’m just _saying_. You want to know if you’re compatible, don’t muddy the waters with kissing.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Supply Closet—” She points her spoon at him. “Physical attraction is just as crucial an element as common interests. How many people are perfect matches on paper but when it comes to hormones, zilch? Chemistry plays a huge part in the continuation of the human race. Physicality is _the_ main deciding factor in most levels of the animal kingdom!”

“By that logic, you and I would be compatible.”

A beat.

“I see what you mean.” She hopes her expression is as uncommunicative as his. “Because. We obviously aren’t.”

“Obviously.” He pulls his chili out of the microwave and busies himself with adding sour cream.

“Oh, hey! People!” says Neville, entering the kitchen. “You two having lunch in here today?”

“No,” they both say immediately.

“Eating at my desk,” Hermione tells him. She collects her unheated food with shaking hands and leaves the room.

-

“Is there a problem between you and Sirius?” asks Ginny, and with that Hermione realizes she needs to snap out of it. Or snap back into it. They are coworkers who are on friendly terms. End of story.

-

Ron smiles and says, “Hello, Hermione.”

Hermione smiles and says, “Good morning, Ron.”

Sirius Black, standing by Hermione’s desk waiting for her to find a roll of stamps, says, “Mornin’, Weasley. TGIF.”

“Same to you.” Ron gives Hermione another smile and keeps walking to his desk.

Sirius says, “So. Tonight’s the big night, is it?”

“It is.” Hermione hands him the stamps.

“Dinner, I’m guessing?”

“Leaky’s. On Diagon Avenue.”

“I’ve been. They have good grilled shrimp. What’s that look on your face?”

“You’re not going to show up with some ‘what are the odds’ story, are you?”

“For crying out loud, Hermione, are we sixteen? No, I am not going to crash your precious date. I happen to have a reservation at Flore Pleno, myself.”

“Oh.”

“Thanks for these. Well. Good luck.” He raps the partition with his knuckles and walks away.

-

The date is textbook perfect. Ron picks her up on time, compliments her like he means it, and looks as handsome as a cologne ad. She feels beautiful, the food is delicious, and she doesn’t spill anything on herself or get something wedged in her teeth. They talk easily the whole time and the conversation is actually interesting. He kisses her and tells her he’s been wanting to for a while. It’s everything she’s ever wished for over the course of two whole years.

She stares at the ceiling for hours before falling asleep.

-

“How was the date?”

“It was a lot of fun.”

“Yeah? Good. Use any of my advice?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. Good. Enjoy your lunch.”

-

Hermione can see them in her peripheral vision. He’s standing by the mailboxes flirting with the new girl, whom Hermione has mentally dubbed ‘some chica’ and whose real name is Parvati. It’s been going on for ten minutes longer than usually flies in this office. Can’t anyone else hear this? Why isn’t anyone complaining?

She slams a drawer violently. She leans over the forms she’s trying to read, rapidly tapping her pen against her mouth. Finally, she picks up the whole stack of paper, moves it to the other side of her desk, and spins her chair all the way around so that Sirius and his new flame are behind her. Then she puts in headphones.

If anything, they start talking more loudly.

-

Somehow she’s ended up sitting next to him in another Minerva meeting. She isn’t sure how: she looked up and there he was, angled forward so that she has an excellent view of his shoulder. The faintest scent of his cologne reaches her when he shifts in his chair. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the middle of his forearms.

Minerva hands over the meeting to Binns, which was a mistake. Hermione is willing to bet half the room is taking advantage of his monotone presentation to mentally plan the week’s supper menu.

She glances at her neighbor’s steno pad, which is filled with his neat block print. In the margin he is writing a To Do list.

 _HELP ALBUS FILE TAX RETURN_  
_OIL CHANGE_  
_LIBRARY RETURNS_  
_BIRTHDAY GIFT FOR TEDDY – CHEM. SET? CHECK W. R &T_  
_HAIRCUT - SCHEDULE_  
_EARLY MEETING MON._  
_WHEN IS JIMMY'S RECITAL??_

Longing sweeps through her. It’s short-lived and idiotic, but there’s really no denying how much she—just for a moment—wishes she was a part of this other side of his life.

-

“You left this on the printer.”

“Thanks. That’s a nice dress.”

“Thank you. Where were you yesterday?”

“Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I was sick all weekend. Chest cold.”

“I didn't think—what you think I thought. You should have told me, I would have brought something over. It would have been no trouble; we live so near each other.”

“I know. I'd have guessed you'd forgotten that.”

“Well. I didn't. Tell me next time.”

“Will do. Same to you.”

Her mood, which has been as gloomy as the weather, suddenly shifts. It wasn’t even a groundbreaking or interesting conversation but for some reason Hermione is on a high. She beams at everyone she passes on her way back to her desk.

-

The company buys them lunch. Everyone piles into the conference room like scavenger birds on a zebra carcass. Hermione chooses a spot with an open seat beside it.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Sirius enter the room. She turns to Luna, chatting animatedly; when she glances up again, he is seated at the far end of the conference table, grinning at a story Parvati is telling him.

Ron slides into the seat beside Hermione, eyes eager. She smiles brightly up at him.

(She doesn’t wonder for even one moment who else might be watching.)

-

It is Dean’s birthday. In typical floor fashion a handful of the employees who are looking for a distraction from the labor they were hired to do are decorating his office.

Sirius sits on the floor blowing balloons while Hermione hangs streamers. Every so often he hands her a piece of tape. They’ve been asked twice by Neville, whose office is next door, to please keep their volume down.

“‘ _Gentlemen to bed, for we leave at nine-thirty!_ ’ I say that way too much now. It makes Harry want to murder me. The other best part: when Steve Coogan is trying to cross the river. ‘ _You’re stuck in a metaphor!_ ’ I say that too often now too.”

She’s nearly crying with mirth. “And then he topples right into the water. I laughed so hard I fell off the couch.”

Ron pokes his head in. “Need some help?”

Sirius stands slowly, stretching as he straightens. “Sure. Take over for me here. I should probably get some work done.” He releases his stopper-hold on a balloon and it deflates in a sputtering rush.

Hermione identifies.

-

Hermione and Ginny go to the café downstairs for lunch; their table looks out into the lobby, where they can see Sirius Black bidding farewell to a woman in a form-fitting business suit. She gives him a large, white, red-rimmed smile that leaves no room for misunderstanding. She’s probably already given him her number. And email. And Twitter handle. Twice.

He smiles his Casanova smile back at her, waves her off, and strides toward the lobby stairs. There is no way he couldn’t have seen the pair in the café but he doesn’t acknowledge them.

“Gross,” says Hermione.

“You don’t like your sandwich? It was good last time I was here.”

“No, not that. Sirius, parading all those women around.”

“He never used to,” Ginny says. “Well, if he did he never flaunted it the way he does now. I don’t know what changed.”

“He has a reputation now,” Hermione suggests. “One has an image to maintain.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione. He’s a decent guy. ‘Image to maintain’, good grief.”

“He’s so hard to read. One minute you’re maybe friends, the next you’re just… people who work in the same department.”

“I dunno,” says Ginny. “He and I have always gotten along. But then, I’ve always been with Harry. That eliminated any hormonal complications from the get-go.”

Hermione says, “Oh please, I can’t believe he’s never tried to put the moves on you.”

“He stays in his lane.”

“Seems to me he likes trying out other lanes. Unless it’s mine. And yours apparently.” She hasn’t told Ginny about the… lesson. Something about it feels need-to-know. And it doesn’t count as trying out anything, does it? _She_ approached _him!_

Ginny stirs honey into her tea. “Like he would even bother trying with you. Everyone’s known from day one how you feel about Ron. Here’s a tip, don’t ever play poker.”

Hermione pulls an onion off her sandwich. She asks abruptly, “Speaking of Ron. He told me he’s liked me for a while. Why do you think it took him so long to ask me out?”

“If I could tell you that, I would quit my job and make a killing as a love advice columnist. My money’s on low confidence. You’re kind of intimidating.”

“You aren’t intimidated by me!”

“I _know_ you.”

“Is it off-putting?”

“Nah. It's just because you're smart _and_ pretty _and_ confident. Any guy worth his salt will be willing to go out on a limb. Look at Ron, he finally made it.”

“I wasn’t just referring to dates.”

“Are we talking about Sirius again? I did notice you two seemed to be getting friendlier.” She looks at Hermione’s expression. “Or not?”

“Who cares, anyway. He’s just a schmoozing, swaggering slacker.”

Ginny looks surprised. “He works harder than most people I’ve ever met. When the new system rolled out he was working nights and weekends for a month. Minerva even gave him carte-blanche holiday time to use whenever he felt like it, just so he wouldn’t quit his job on a whim if he reached the breaking point.”

Hermione feels very, very small.

Ginny returns to the topic of Ron. “So, is there going to be a second date?”

“He asked me.”

“Yeah? Good. When’s it going to be?”

“I told him I would check my calendar,” says Hermione.

-

She goes into his office and closes the door with a soft _click_. He doesn’t react except to glance up briefly from the email he’s typing. She sits and waits for him to finish.

Then she says: “Is that why?”

Sirius gives her one of his sideways looks.

“Ron. Is that why you’ve been doing this?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Two years you’ve been marching these other women across my path. I don’t know if it was a smoke screen or if you were distracting yourself or trying to make me jealous or _what_ —”

“All of the above,” he says, eyes not leaving her face.

She takes a moment to focus on her breathing. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He looks incredulous. “You’re in love with Weasley!”

“I thought I was.”

He runs his hand across his eyes, gives a humorless laugh. He says flatly, “This is just hormones. This is just—lust. This isn’t real. You don’t really feel—” He cuts off abruptly, looks down at the desktop.

“What you feel?”

He makes a sound like a strangled cough. And that’s all it takes: that miniscule final bit of confirmation that she needs. She feels like every cell in her body has begun glowing. Now all she needs to do is present a convincing case to the source of the glow, who is saying, “You wanted me to teach you how to _kiss_ him, Hermione. How to kiss _him_.”

“And I did kiss him.” His eyes screw up and he opens his mouth, no doubt gearing up to deliver a frustrated insult. “In his car. While it was running.”

He stops, looks at her.

“I know you think this is too fast of a one-eighty on my part for it to be real, and maybe it is. But to _me_ —it makes sense. I feel like I’ve woken up. And I don’t feel that way with him. He’s just an infatuation that became a habit. When I look at you I think _of course_. If you hadn’t kissed me I never would have realized that. It would never have occurred to me to look twice.”

In his eyes she sees: disbelief. Uncertainty. Hope.

He stands up, paces around the room. She stands and waits for him to recover his power of speech. He rubs a hand over his jaw.

“The kiss in the car—”

She crosses the room, reaches up to hold his shoulder for support, stands on her tiptoes, presses her closed lips to his, and lets go.

“That’s it?” He says, “Do you know how much sleep I’ve lost over that?”

“Really. That’s the one you’ve lost sleep over?”

“I’ve been trying to forget the other one. I’ve been a man without hope, remember?”

“And now?”

“Now,” he says, eyes fixed on hers. “Now is different.”

She smiles at him. He mirrors her; she watches the belief sinking in, indicated by his smile getting bigger by the second.

“What now?” he says, eyes full of anticipation.

She steps closer to him and lays her hands on both sides of his waist. “What do you know about pheromones?”

“It’s a chemical. Somebody releases it, somebody else reacts to it.”

“Yeah? Well, all I know is, my couch smelled like you for a week.”

He grins. “Good line. You practice that?”

“ _No_ , I did _not_. Argh, I _told_ you I was better at the silent part—”

He cuts her off by wrapping his arms around her and kissing her like his life depends on it.

She’s perfectly content to stay right where they are, doing exactly what they are doing until the apocalypse occurs, but he breaks the kiss. He tips his head toward his office door, which is fortunately still closed, but is unfortunately made of glass. So is his desk. There’s nowhere to hide.

Sirius doesn’t look anywhere near as disappointed as Hermione feels; he looks positively giddy. She’s seen him cheerful but never so happy, not like this, all warmth and delight. Seeing it makes something deep in her heart start to glow.

He grabs her hand and pulls to her to the door.

“Where are we going?”

“To find a supply closet.”

She laughs and follows.


End file.
